


Greatest Weakness

by SammysGirl666



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5976304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SammysGirl666/pseuds/SammysGirl666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean almost died and his wrists are gonna hurt like a bitch for the next few weeks. Thank God Sammy's always there to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greatest Weakness

“You know the greatest thing about you Winchesters?” The demon asks as he circles around Dean, a knife in a one hand, smirking evilly. He’s pretty cliché as bad guys go, even has the whole “why I’m going to win and you’re going to lose speech” started and Dean’s bored to tears. His wrists are chafing where the rope digs into his skin. A burning sensation in his ankles tells him that the ropes there aren’t doing any better for him, not that he’s not positive it’s intentional. He doubts that these demons have too many guidelines or stipulations about the hostage’s comfort. 

“We’re real lookers,” Dean spits out in answer to the demon’s taunting question. The demon’s smirk just widens and it’s such a familiar look that Dean almost wants to laugh. He probably would if his damn wrists weren’t so uncomfortable. 

“No,” the demon says, “Though there is that. But no, the greatest thing about Winchesters is that I don’t even have to try. I don’t need any intel or fancy X-Ray machines or some profound knowledge of your anatomy. Hell, I don’t even need to read your mind or your emotions or possess you to gain access to those things. I don’t need any special tools to figure out what your weakness is.”

Dean feels his heart drop, not in dread. He knows that he’ll make it out of this alive, has to believe it because with all the grandiose daydreams he’s had about his own death, being killed as ransom would be a real fizzle-y way to go. He just hates it when they bring up Sam, when they rub his own codependent obsession in his face, when they think they have the upper hand because Sam is, of course, going to come for him. It helps that they underestimate them at every turn, acting as if the only reason they ever make it out of situations is because they’ve been lucky or something.

“No, fortunately for me, your weakness is about 6 feet tall and trails you around like a puppy,” the demon says. “You chose a pretty easy soft spot, Dean, picking your brother to care about beyond all sense and reason.”

Sam may be his weakness but Sam is not weak. It’s amazing how these evil sons of bitches can so consistently forget that. Dean’s the only one not surprised when Sam comes bursting through the door, covered in what’s undoubtedly the blood of whatever defenses this smug douchebag sent out. Sam looks beautiful like that, covered in blood, wild eyed, irises blown by adrenaline as he lunges forward and is stopped with a wave of the smug douchebag’s hand.

He’s slammed against the nearest wall and held there by an unseen force.

“Well I have to say, I’m impressed,” the demon says in that voice that says he’s trying to seem as if everything’s under control. But the way that he’s looking between Sam and Dean, as if waiting for either of them to attack, lets Dean know that they’ve already pretty much won. All he needs to do is get these damned uncomfortable ropes off his wrist. 

“You’re quite remarkable aren’t you, Sam?” The demon asks, ignoring Dean, assuming that the older man is restrained so he isn’t a threat. It’s a rookie mistake, one he won’t ever get to learn from, but one that Dean’s seen countless monsters make. “You had no trouble with my guards did you? Cut them all down so you could come here and save your brother? Was it worth it Sam? Especially knowing that you failed? What are you going to do now? I know. I’m going to tie you up with your brother and you two can spend—.”

“Why do you assholes always talk so much?” Dean says, standing from the chair he was bound to after getting the knots around his ankles undone. His wrists are rubbed raw, bleeding in the most tender parts, and he resists the urge to rub them. Instead he digs his gun out of his waistband of his jeans and points it at the demon.

“You can’t kill me,” the demon says, but he doesn’t look so sure or smug anymore.

“No,” Dean agrees and the watches with no small amount of satisfaction as the demon’s mouth drops open in surprise and the lights flash out behind his eyes; he falls to the floor, dead. Sam’s still holding the knife buried in the thing’s back and yanks it out, wiping it on the dead thing’s clothes. “But he can,” Dean finishes, still talking to what’s now a corpse. 

He helps Sam up off the ground and they dust each other off. Sam grabs his arms and runs his fingers lightly over the damage on the wrists. Dean hisses and pulls away, ignoring Sam’s look of disapproval.

“Wait ‘til we get back to the bunker, _mom_ ,” Dean says, emphasizing the last word, mocking Sam. The younger man doesn’t seem bothered. “And next time, you get to be the bait and have your wrists shredded to hell.” 

When they’re back in the bunker, Sam pointedly makes his way to the bathroom and Dean slumps along in his wake. He looks in on Sam, who’s digging under the bathroom counter for first aid stuff. 

“Go wait in your room,” Sam commands softly, not really an order but something he’s obviously hoping to not be contested on. Dean gets the picture pretty quickly because Sam always gets like this on hunts where Dean gets uncomfortably close to death. Tonight, Sam wants Dean to acquiesce without argument. This isn’t a scene, too real and tender for that, but a simple unstated plea for the older man to just cooperate for tonight so that they’ll both feel better in the morning. 

And after spending an hour and a half, tied to a chair in a dark warehouse, forcing himself not to doubt Sam and his ability to come to the rescue, Dean isn’t particularly inclined to being a nuisance. He even finds himself amenable to the idea of letting Sam have his way tonight. 

He sits on the side of his bed and waits for Sam. It doesn’t take long, and the younger man comes in holding assorted things in his large hands. He sits next to Dean on the bed, close, so close that their hips almost touch. Their eyes meet but Sam doesn’t say anything beyond,

“Give me your wrists.”

Dean holds them both out and in the light, they look worse than they did back at the warehouse. They’re scraped to hell, with some of the small cuts bleeding out onto the skin. The narrowest part of his wrist is rubbed completely raw and ugly, blood welling up to the surface of the bright pink skin even as Sam tries to dab some of the thickest mess away.

“Did they tie yours wrists with Brillo pads? Jesus, some of these are deep.” Sam growls angrily as he pours some rubbing alcohol out onto a cotton ball and begins to dab the open wounds. Dean hisses but knows better than to yank his arms away. 

“Ordinary rope as far as I could tell,” Dean says and it’s a weird thing to say considering Sam was probably being facetious. He can’t help but want to put his little brother’s mind at ease, though. 

Sam snorts, like the answer makes sense to him and continues to clean Dean’s wrists. They’re quiet and Sam finally puts the alcohol aside, reaching for the scar cream. But then he stops, looks at Dean and then back down at his torn up wrists. He leans down and presses his lips to the pulse point. It doesn’t feel good, almost hurts actually, but Dean doesn’t tell him to stop. 

Then Sam’s tongue presses against Dean’s pulse point and that feels amazing. Dean can’t actually hold back the moan it pulls out of him. Sam’s eyebrows raise and Dean can seem him thinking about it, prays that they’re both on the same page, and thanks God that they are when Sam does it again. He licks Dean’s wrist gently, getting his lips involved just enough to call it kissing. He doesn’t suck or bite, nothing to further irritate Dean’s pain, just wet soft kisses with a lot of tongue. 

It feels so good that Dean actually makes a sound of protest when Sam pulls away, only to groan again when Sam starts showing his other wrist the same treatment. It doesn’t take long for Dean harden in his jeans. He suddenly wants Sam to fuck him, rough and without tenderness but that’s not in the cards with the way Sam’s gently soothing his wrists. They’re on Sam’s schedule tonight and Dean leans back and tries to catch his breath so he doesn’t ruin things before they even start. 

“Not gonna be able to sit still for the cream if you keep doing that, Sammy,” Dean says, knowing his voice is shot but he’s too hard up for it to care. It’s like the life-affirming sex part of the night just switched on and Dean feels the last six hours with raw clarity, how close he was to not making it out. It only fuels his arousal and he needs Sam inside him like _yesterday_ but, damn it, he’s going to wait until Sam gives the go ahead. 

“Yes you will,” Sam says, lifting his head and grinning at Dean. “Just not that kind of cream. And not on your wrists.” 

Dean wants to groan at how cheesy Sam sounds, like a porn star, but it just comes out as a moan of pleasure when Sam works the button of his jeans open and fits his hand inside the denim. He strokes Dean’s dick through a layer of boxers for a few seconds before pulling away and yanking the jeans and boxers off entirely so that Dean is left in a t-shirt, still holding his wrists out to Sam in offering.

Sam begins lapping at Dean’s wrists again, with that same gentleness as before except now there’s heat behind it. Sam works of his own jeans and apparently decides that they’ll keep the shirts on tonight. He crawls up Dean’s body and pins the older man to the bed, not by the wrists, but pushes down onto Dean with his hips, grinding their dicks together. Dean bucks up and gives Sam a look he hopes conveys the very loud “hurry the fuck up” he’s screaming in his head. 

Sam seems to get the picture and Dean, who’s been worried that Sam would choose tonight to be all tender and gentle and fucking _slow_ , is relieved to see that Sam seems just as desperate for contact as he is. Maybe Sam had plans to be gentle, but they’re swept away by the need to remind himself that Dean isn’t dead. Sure, he knows that just by looking at Dean, but Sam needs to know it in his bones, needs to mark Dean inside and out so that they both know. 

At least, that’s why Dean assumes Sam is doing it. He assumes because it’s how he feels, and it’s getting hotter, more like fire in his veins the longer Sam takes to move things along. 

Sam fingers him with the scar cream and there’s irony in there somewhere, Dean is certain, but he can’t think about it long enough to come up with a pun (feeling that his “magic healing cock” jokes have gone out of style). 

Sam fits inside him like he always does, as if he’s just filling a hole that was already waiting for him. It kind of burns but it’s mostly amazing and Dean rocks back into it, feeling starved and alive and horribly in love with his little brother. Sam grabs his arms and starts to press kisses to his wrists again. It’s mostly just wave after wave of hot breath over the sensitive skin but Dean’s thankful for it anyway.

He can’t focus on the way his wrists hurt with Sam moving inside him, hitting his prostate, and making the world go white behind his eyes. 

Life affirming sex usually gets put off until after they’re patched up but sometimes it happens like this, where Sam fucks Dean on top of gauze and dangerously close to medical tweezers. And it’s always fast, like Sam’s chasing some feeling inside him that only Dean can lead him too. Dean lets Sam use his body, lets the younger man tire himself out with his hard thrusts, lets it happen and eats it up because it feels so damn good.

Sam doesn’t come until their lips meet, he’s soft like that and gasps into Dean’s mouth as he spills inside the older man. Dean groans and fucks himself down on Sam’s softening cock until he feels the pleasure burst and he comes hard between them, all over their pelvises. Sam makes a little sound of protest and pushes himself off and out of Dean. 

“Wrists,” he says, his voice tired and slurred. Dean tries to glare at him but must not make it far past sated contentment because Sam just smiles at him and grabs his forearms anyway. He reaches back and grabs the scar cream. Dean yanks his arms away.

“You put that stuff in my ass,” Dean says as if he’s just now worried about sanitation. He’s not; mostly doing it because things don’t feel as heavy now that he’s satisfied and coated with come and leaking Sam’s come from his asshole. He feels better which means he can annoy Sam without feeling guilty. And Sam can take it.

“It’s not like I’m squeezing _you_ like a toothpaste tube and using whatever comes out,” Sam argues and forces Dean’s arms apart so that he can take one in each hand. He uncaps the scar cream and rubs it over the wounded skin on both wrists, applying a rather thick coat before taking the gauze and wrapping the cuts. When he’s all patched up, Dean lies back on the bed and beckons for Sam. Sam shoves the first aid stuff on the ground and crawls in next to Dean.

“Gonna ravish me again, little brother?” Dean asks teasingly.

Sam doesn’t answer just plants his lips on Dean’s shoulder and bucks his hips down. He’s already getting hard again. Dean can still feel the soft throb of his pained wrists but he caresses Sam’s hip anyway and wonders, randomly, if it’s a bad thing how much of a weakness Sam is for him. But as the younger man starts to work him open again on long fingers, he can’t say he really minds.

**Author's Note:**

> More writing at goditsmesam.tumblr.com


End file.
